


The Fourth Son

by Bearslayer



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Ace!Wald, Alfred as a Sassy Steward, Established Relationship, Gratuitous references to DC Universe in Names/Places, Intrigue and shit, M/M, MANY characters will be added as chapters progress, Nygmobblepot Royalty, Royalty AU, established nygmobblepot, gradual build, long fic, lore heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:21:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bearslayer/pseuds/Bearslayer
Summary: When Oswald is thrust unexpectedly into a position of the highest power, will his relationship with his personal valet, Edward, survive?This fic is unfinished and will no longer be updated unless there is significant interest.





	1. Together We Stand

**Author's Note:**

> This is likely going to end up being a lengthy fic, so I've decided to make it so that I post one chapter, or at most two, per week so that I'm able to keep my motivation up while still having time to plot.
> 
> I'm going to be creating a lot of lore for this little universe I'm making, so bear with me if it gets tedious; I'll try to keep it concise! 
> 
> If you like this feel free to bookmark or leave comments, any feedback is appreciated. <3

“All of them are...?” Oswald whispered, voice faint. The words twisted in his throat, slipping into his stomach, where they turned to a bile that churned at his insides.

“Yes, Sir.” The servant replied, eyes lowered and hands clasped at his front respectfully.

“I must see them.” Oswald choked out. It was a fight to maintain his composure, one that he was rapidly losing.

“I – I'm sorry, Sir. Due to the nature of their passing, there is concern that the illness that took them might strike you... It is of the utmost importance that you be kept separate from them until arrangements are made.” The man kept his eyes down as he spoke.

“.. Very well. You are dismissed. Inform my valet that his presence is required.” Oswald straightened his stance.

“Yes, Sir.” The servant scurried away, no doubt thankful to be out of the room.

\---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Oswald had just barely returned from his trip to what was _supposed_ to be his future estate when the news reached him. His family was dead. Both parents, the King and Queen, and his three older brothers, including the Crown Prince Richard; all dead. Foul illness had struck down each member of Gotham's Royal Family in his absence, as well as a fair amount of the staff that kept the castle running. He had few details about the illness, knowing only that the common folk had been referring to it as 'The Blue Flu' for its characteristics; all of the symptoms typical of the flu, deadly in and of itself, but made worse by a symptom that presented itself in late stages. Suffocation, as fluid gathered in the lungs, causing the skin to be tinged with a sickly blue pallor.

While he had no great affection for his brothers or father, the sudden loss of his mother drove a spike of keen pain into his heart. She had always favored him despite his fallacies. He was not strong like his brothers, not charming. He was sickly, at best, and different in ways that most people didn't understand. But Mother had always shown him kindness and shielded him from the criticism of others. She had always built him up, reminded him that he was a good man, that he was worthy of the bounty his life had provided.

And in his absence, she had died in pain. Oswald's stomach clenched as he moved to the wash basin in the adjoining room. The churning of his stomach gave way to a harsh heaving, and for once he felt grateful that he had forgotten to eat that day. At least there would be little mess to account for. By the end of the retching spell he had fallen to his knees, throat burning and eyes filled with tears. Alone, Oswald sobbed as the world seemed to rest itself firmly on his shoulders, crushing him beneath its weight.

He was too wrapped in his own paralyzing fear and sadness to realize that someone had slipped into the small room with him. His small, thin body shook too hard with his weeping to initially feel the arm slip around his shoulders, and the ringing in his ears muffled the gentle voice that attempted to cut short his sorrow.

“Sir... Please...” He began to hear, but only barely. He didn't want to be bothered – he wanted to have his time to be inconsolable, to be childish. His mother was gone, and he was alone in a world that wished to eat him alive. It was impossible to bring himself to move away from the warmth of this other person, though; he was too weak. Always too weak.

“Oswald.” The use of his first name cut through the fog like a beacon of light. There was only one person who would speak to him so plainly.

“E-Eddie!” He choked out; he had forgotten that he sent for the man. Shifting where he sat, Oswald turned into his waiting arms, slight body fitting against his chest perfectly. Long fingers slid through the little Prince's hair as he sought his comfort, fingers clinging to his tunic.

“I'm so sorry Oswald... I didn't know how serious it was. I had heard of this sickness but I...” Edward's voice was soft and deep, laden with pain. Oswald wondered if Ed mourned them as well, or if the events that had led the tall man into servitude had left him bitter... and if the ache in his voice was born of a desire for a vengeance that would never come to pass.

Edward was not native to the great City of Gotham. He initially came from Keystone, a territory to the west. His father was the Duke of Keystone; a man, who, as history would come to tell, was vile and craved power above all else, even at the expense of his own people. Over a decade before, Duke Nygma had called for rebellion against Oswald's father, King Tucker Cobblepot, hoping to overthrow the crown and take control for himself. Their forces were no match for the might of Gotham's armies, and the rebellion was squashed after two brief, bloody battles. The Duke had no support from the other Dukes and lesser lords of the kingdom, save for the few governing the parcels of land in Nygma's duchy.

The execution of Duke Nygma and his wife were public and gruesome. Edward had been taken prisoner as well, despite being a boy of only eight years. He and Oswald had known each other for practically their entire lives, first meeting at the respective ages of two and four at some harvest feast. They spent every festival, tournament, and feast with one another. Having grown to know Edward as being his only friend, Oswald plead with his father to spare the other boy's life.

 

“ _He'll grow up to be a snake, just like his father!” King Tucker had snapped._

“ _No he won't, Father – I'll watch over him, I swear it!” Oswald gripped his father's robes, voice high and scared._

“ _How can you watch over him? You're a runt, Oswald. He's bigger than you are and he's only eight!” Father had snapped back at him, pushing his son from his robes. Oswald had fallen heavily on the stone, but gotten right back up._

“ _Make him my servant! He will be at my side always, and if he threatens me the Guard can strike him down without question!” Oswald had snapped back defiantly._

“ _The guard can't always be there, Oswald. Be reasonable, child!” The King returned, flicking a hand in his general direction. Oswald knew his next move was critical for Edward's survival, so he chose his words carefully._

“ _... So you would execute a child for fear of an imagined future? A child who is beloved by the people of Keystone? A child whose eyes barely work? Strip him of his birthright and have him be my valet, Father; that is punishment enough.” Oswald seemed older than his years in that moment, cunning and possessing insight that rage had stricken from the King._

“ _... Very well, Oswald. He is your responsibility; any action he takes will reflect upon you, and you alone.” The man had looked at him, anger quelled, “So like your mother you are sometimes...”_

 

After some initial hesitation, Edward had taken to the role easily. He found that Oswald was largely ignored by the Court, expected as the fourth son to do little other then become educated and learn how to manage small holdings. Oswald did all things from that point on with Ed at his side, learning and growing up with him. When Oswald lacked competence in one area, Edward excelled. When Edward was unable to do something due to his rank, Oswald strong-armed his way through for him. Together, they were overlooked, but whole.

The love they had for one another had grown steadily throughout the years, from tender youth to stumbling adolescence. Now that both were adults, the seed sown when Oswald convinced his father to spare Edward's life had bloomed into something so beautiful that Oswald barely felt worthy of it. It was that love that comforted Oswald now, when the burden of life was at its heaviest. In Edward's arms he was safe and cared for.

“What will I do, Edward?” Oswald spoke up at last; they had been there for an unknown amount of time. It felt like hours.

“You will do your duty, Oswald. The Kingdom needs you now more than ever before.” Edward urged him softly, brushing his hair from his eyes.

“I don't know how to rule them, Ed... It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to inherit the estate by the sea, and we were supposed to live there with one another, far removed from this madness.” Oswald's voice broke slightly, a leftover hiccup from his weeping escaping.

“I know, Ozzie... I know. This complicates things, doesn't it?” There was a worry in Edward's expression that worried the small man in his arms.

“Immeasurably so.” Oswald sighed, shifting to sit himself upright, looking to the other man as he slouched.

“It does not change the fact that I am at your side, as I have always been. No death, no war, no change will take me from you. We will have to be... far more careful, yes, but I believe that we are strongest together, and that we will make it through this life as long as we remain true to one another.” Edward told him, voice firm and final.

“This life and whatever awaits us after. Together.” Oswald took his hand, fingers linking with the other mans. It was as natural as breathing.

“Together,” Edward agreed, shifting to stand upright, “Now come, My King... There is work to be done.”

 


	2. Funeral Rites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad this has been so well received!  
> I love feedback, so feel free to comment/bookmark/message me! <3

The funerals were jointly held and devastatingly bare-bones in ceremony. The general public was not allowed into the castle for the somber occasion, given the nature of their deaths, on the order of the royal Physician. A massive funeral pyre was erected in the courtyard, smoke smothering the beautiful flowers that once grew there, ground blackening beneath it. Normally, such a thing would be done somewhere more appropriate, but terror of the deadly flu called for haste. Oswald had made a brief appearance when the funeral began before being hurried away by worrisome nursemaids. There was too much fear that Oswald would fall ill given his history of frailty, too much concern that the youngest and only surviving Cobblepot would perish, and that the Kingdom would be handed over to some distant cousin, or some inept Duke.

Gentle eulogies were spoken in the sprawling courtyard filled with weeping mourners, some by members of the court, others by relations that had managed to make it there on such short notice. Oswald remained tucked away in his bedroom for the entire ordeal, a thin parchment mask covering his mouth and nose to avoid the inhalation of the smoke that crawled into each part of the castle from open arrow slits and cracked shutters. He listened through his window as people praised and blessed each fallen member of the family, and scoffed softly as some ended their sentiments by wishing Oswald well in his future reign. His father's remains were not even fully cremated yet and already there were people pushing for Oswald's favor.

People who had spent the Crown Prince's entire life disregarding or giving sly insult to him were now realizing their errors. No doubt he would have to tread carefully. The throne was the most dangerous chair in the entire realm, after all. And though the notion of divine right no longer applied in the Kingdom of Gotham, Oswald's rule would be recognized as being a birthright that was absolute. It was a thought that had never occurred to him as being remotely possible, given his position as fourth son. Sure, he'd given consideration to having his brothers killed; in all the history of all the monarchies, was there a youngest son who hadn't considered it to boost his chance at being king?

But it was a thought only humored now and again. Mostly, Oswald was content to spend his time with Edward, learning the truths and oddities of the world. The act of learning itself made the world seem less terrifyingly large, less full of madness and nonsense. He and his Edward had taken many trips to the far off Library of Metropolis, spending countless hours among the stacks. They had traveled all over the Kingdom itself to investigate the world at large, every location revealing new secrets about its inhabitants and rulers.

Part of Oswald mourned his loss of freedom. Gone were the days where he and his companion could leave in a moment's notice and take to the road with naught but a few bags and a guard or two. Now, his life would be spent in that chair, that wretched throne, burdened with all the problems of the realm. It was his duty, as Edward had said, one he would bear if only to honor the memory of his family. His every move would be scrutinized, his every command upheld but also looked at critically, no doubt.

And Edward.

What of Edward?

How would Oswald keep him safe from the eyes of the realm? How could he justify keeping him close when he was the child of a disgraced line? Retaining him as his personal valet was out of the question, not when his parents surviving flock of servants would be attending to those needs. He couldn't remove them from their positions without being accused of being cruel and showing favoritism.

Closing his eyes, Oswald rested his head against the cool stone of the wall. Trying times were in his future, and he could do nothing but weather them. Perhaps he would grow to enjoy it, even, and make a halfway decent King. Another part of him - a part more cynical and invasive – thought that perhaps he would be assassinated before he ever wore the Crown. It was always a possibility.

He even toyed with the thought that the illness that had nearly wiped out his entire line had been foul play. Stranger things had happened in Gotham, and they were not without enemies. It was entirely plausible that someone had sent in some flu-ridden servant to shake up the castle and open the throne to outside influence. With Gotham, the Northernmost (and, in Oswald's opinion, greatest) of the four major Kingdoms disrupted so heavily, the other three could try to step in and broaden their boarders. Metropolis, directly South, or Argo to the West. Even the island nation of Kandor, blocked miles of sea and by Argo, would benefit from an unsure future for Gotham. The northern waterways needed to get to Metropolis in the most effective and safe way passed through Gotham lands, and the ever fluctuating government of the island nation paid a hefty tribute in order to use them.

“How are you faring, my love?” Edward's soft, concerned voice snapped him from his thoughts.

“As well as can be expected, Ed. My family is dead and I am to be crowned tomorrow. Last week we were drunk on peasant ale and giggling in a flea-bitten inn room, this week any freedom I had will be stripped away, replaced by endless decision making and court pandering.” Oswald didn't mean to put so much venom in his words. Edward did not take offense.

“That is understandable... It's going to be quite an adjustment, to say the least...” Ed pulled up and sat in a chair at his side, frowning and pushing up his ill fitting glasses. They needed to be replaced.

“Indeed. Have you heard any of the eulogies these cretins are giving? Most of them mention me and it's all... 'Long may he reign' and 'The Kind Crown-Prince'. Sycophants.” Oswald nearly spat his words, finding the whole thing to be distasteful.

“You're going to end up with a lot of those, Ozzie. You're going to rule the most powerful Kingdom in the world soon, and everyone will want to please you...” Ed's hand found his, their fingers linking almost on instinct.

“Perhaps I'll order them all off a cliff.” Oswald muttered. Ed laughed, bringing the King-to-be's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“I don't think you can do that. You might end up with a rebellion. You'll have to be cordial... we can just gossip about them later, when we're alone.” Ed reassured him.

“Are we ever going to be alone again?” Oswald's worry was evident in his voice.

“Of course. You can just banish people from your chambers and punish them if they disobey.” Edward shook his head. “Though I suppose I can't stay in your room anymore... It'll bring unwanted attention to us.”

“... I suppose it will, won't it?” Oswald's eyes lowered. He hadn't thought of that detail, and wondered absently what other mainstays of his life would be forced into change.

“This doesn't change how we feel about one another... right?” Edward's expression had changed, a frown overtaking his facial features. When Edward frowned, he did so wholeheartedly, and this was an issue he had clearly been dwelling on.

“Of course not, Ed!” Oswald looked at him, aghast.

“Good. Things are going to be... expected of you, and to be honest, I don't know where I fit in to this grand picture.” Edward admitted, not looking at him.

“With me, Edward. You fit in with me, like you always have. I'm not going to leave you behind, not for anyone.” Oswald insisted.

“What about when you get married?” Ed looked at him then, a forlorn quality to his features that ripped Oswald's heart in two.

But it was Edward's words that sent a shock into his very soul. Marriage? He hadn't even considered that as a possibility. And with marriage came the expectation of children... His throat felt thick, stomach once again beginning to churn as anxiety bubbled like boiling water throughout his body. Swallowing down the panic as well as he could, Oswald shook his head roughly.

“If I am to be married, it will be to you!” He said, voice firm.

“You know that can't happen, Ozzie. If we could do so, would we not have done it the moment we both came of age? We are men, us two. We would be killed for it, and that is only if our assailants had mercy enough not to torture us first.” Edward snapped, pulling away.

“I wouldn't let that happen, Ed. I am yours, **only** yours. I will not accept being sold some foreign princess for a bride, nor some noblewoman being whored by her father. I will **not** accept it!” Oswald returned fiercely, standing from his seat. Tears stung his eyes at the very thought of Edward expecting him to sell out their relationship in favor of what was acceptable to the masses. He would sooner throw himself on his mother's funeral pyre.

“Oswald, **sit down**.” Ed said through gritted teeth. Were it anyone else giving the command, Oswald would have laughed or snapped. Because it was Edward, Oswald plopped himself back down, arms folding petulantly over his chest.

“I understand that you're angry at the thought. The only person who wants for you to be married to some woman less than you is me,” Edward explained, slowly, “... but certain concessions must be made if you are to reign for very long. You have to consider it as a possibility, at least. If anything you can find someone dull and unoffensive, bred to have no mind of her own. Someone you can keep up appearances with. But we would not do well to rock the boat so early into your Kingship.”

Oswald hated how rational Edward could be. The future King loathed that he always managed to make sense when all he wanted was to be righteously angry at his situation. They had always tempered one another's spirits; Edward was the icy logic to Oswald's white-hot emotion, the hammer that shaped his often aimless fury into something usable.

“I will give it consideration.” Oswald relented, staring out the window.

“That is all I ask. Let us speak no more of it though, for now. The thought makes me feel ill.” Edward tugged at Oswald's arm, gently urging him to unfold them so that he could hold his hand once more.

Oswald merely nodded, shifting close enough that he could comfortably lay his head on the other man's shoulder.

Together they sat long into the night as the pyre burned in the courtyard, watching as the flames slowly burned away what was once the proud Cobblepot family.

And as solemn day gave way to fire-lit, gloomy night, it began to sink in that the carefree life that Edward and Oswald had long taken for granted was transformed into something infinitely more complicated.

 


	3. Coronation Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new King is crowned in Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for all the comments and kudos. It means a lot to me. This chapter is another backstory heavy one.

“Is there a reason you're in here, Alfred?” Oswald sighed heavily; he could feel the eyes of the older man without even opening his own.

“I'm waiting for you to decide it's time to get out of the bath so that we can get you ready to be crowned, His Royal Highness.” The Steward remarked, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed respectfully despite the hint of cheekiness in his voice.

Oswald breathed in a deep, long suffering sigh. He had been in the bath for nearly an hour, taking comfort in the warm waters as he often did when life became trying. A deep depression had taken root in his heart during the night, and sleep had evaded his efforts to capture it. Edward had been the one to suggest bathing, and had sung to him gently as he washed the small man's back and chest from his spot outside of the water. Oswald had spent much of the hour in silent contemplation; mostly thoughts of his tall companion and how unworthy Oswald felt of his attentions.

“The crowning isn't until noon, Alfred. It is only a bit past sunrise.” Oswald tiredly drawled, opening his eyes with a spectacularly dramatic roll.

“Very well, Sir.” Alfred returned smoothly, but did not move.

Alfred Pennyworth, the Chief Steward of the castle, had been practically a fixture there for as long as Oswald could remember. He had been named personal steward to the late King Tucker during his first year. The two had a history with one another that went back to their youth. Oswald had heard the stories mostly from his mother; the two had both been high ranking officers in Gotham's military when they were young men, starting off as friendly rivals.

Oswald's father, like Oswald himself, had not expected to ascend to the throne, opting instead for a military career. He was the second son of the honorable King Henry, Oswald's grandfather, who died of old age. Tucker's older brother, Nathan, proved to be an endlessly cruel and unfit King who reigned only long enough to ignite a year and a half long war between Gotham and Argo. The damage King Nathan caused to the Kingdom during his two years took decades to repair. It was commonly believed that Nathan's sudden, surprising death was due to the stress of the war causing his heart to give out... But the reality was far more scandalous, known to precious few; most of whom were now dead.

Tucker and Alfred, who had grown close during the war, had killed the King themselves. A dishonorable action for an honorable cause; King Nathan's death eased tensions between Gotham and Argo. Tucker, who had been on the lines for brunt the war, who had seen the destruction firsthand, was able to be both flexible and capable as a King, mending relations with Argo through a series of strategic marriages and mutual reparations on both sides. The war ended within three months of his coronation. Oswald was secretly happy that his father had done whatever it was that he did in order to secure his place on the throne. If he hadn't, tension would never have arisen between Tucker and Duke Nygma (an old friend of Nathan's), and Edward would never have come to live in the castle with them.

An injury at the tail end of the Gotham-Argo war had rendered Pennyworth's ability to remain a soldier impossible. He had taken a blow to the head that had cracked his skull and left him half-blind and near death. Oswald's father received the news with, as his mother told him, absolute horror. Alfred was rushed to the capital for the best medical care in the Kingdom, and made a near full recovery, save for a milky-white, sightless right eye and a grizzly scar about his temple on the same side. King Tucker had appointed him Steward out of respect, and, perhaps to a lesser degree, friendship.

The man's promotion to Chief Steward came naturally. He had shown an impressive proficiency for the job, and the old Chief had expressed a desire to retire and live out his remaining days with his children. Now, many years later, Alfred stood, watching Oswald with a false patience intended solely to irritate the soon to be King out of the bath. And irritate him it did.

“Alfred, might I be granted some semblance of privacy while I leave the bath, or do you plan on observing me the entire time?” Oswald snapped, nerves on edge.

“Sir, I can assure you it isn't anything I haven't seen before. I recall a certain young fellow who enjoyed nothing more then to break free from his nursemaids and run about the corridors in naught but pale skin and giggles...” Alfred somehow managed to contain his amusement at the memory as Oswald's face burned pink with embarrassment.

“Alfred! How dare you! I am to be King, you can't just go around talking like that!” Oswald squeaked out indignantly.

“My apologies, Sir. It wasn't meant to offend; it's a fond memory to counteract this difficult time. I was only trying to lighten the mood a little. I would never think to bring up such things in a less private setting.” Alfred gave him a smile, clearly not sorry. Oswald felt deflated anyway, sinking further into the water. Alfred had always been kind to him, even when he was being an absolute terror.

“Very well. I suppose I can't blame you for wanting a little humor... I can't imagine these past weeks have had any in it.” Oswald replied dully.

“True enough. The loss of your parents has been... felt deeply.” Alfred's voice became softer, an undercurrent of pain becoming evident, if only very briefly.

“Alfred, if you wish to take some time to yourself, I would happily oblige you. I know how close you and my father were...” Oswald frowned, feeling for him suddenly.

“I'm sure you would, young Sir. But there is far too much work to be done, and I won't have someone inept attending to the household in my absence. I'd prefer to spend my nights enjoying myself, not sorting out whatever chaos my underlings have wrought with me not there to monitor them.” He sounded more like a general than a steward, but the King-to-be figured that was what made him so effective. Oswald chuckled gently, looking back to Edward, who had been quietly observing the interaction.

“I suppose I should get out now... Can you get the towels?” With everyone else, Oswald's requests were commands. Edward was the only person truly afforded the courtesy of a choice.

“Of course.” Edward stood and moved to fetch the towels.

They were deep purple in color, heavy in make and almost excessively long in length. Oswald shifted to stand and was almost immediately wrapped up in one of them. Edward had always been a bit possessive, and the presence of the older man compelled him to hide the Crown Prince away. Oswald chuckled, using his arm to step out of the bathtub, closing his eyes as another towel was used to dry his hair.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity for which Oswald was physically, but not mentally present. The drying of his body and hair was quick, and soon he found himself being dressed in finery befitting a King; velvet, silk, satin, soft furs. Dressing well had always given Oswald a sense of belonging in the castle. When one dressed well, one's presence was both noticed and revered. Oswald was small and physically unimposing, but when he was dressed as the Prince that he was, he felt eight feet tall.

The cloak that had been worn by many Kings in the Cobblepot line was too long, and needed hemming, something Alfred fixed expertly. The fur was replaced, the eminent purple fabric brushed off carefully, and the clasp fastened at his chest. Oswald couldn't help but notice how heavy it was, causing some tiny, superstitious part of him wondering if the ghosts of his ancestors had some connection to it. He mused that the cloak was weighed down with all the worries, fears and triumphs of Cobblepots long dead.

He kept his thoughts to himself as he was attended to. His fingernails were filed down, hair trimmed of split ends and laid perfectly about his face in a way that was meant to be vaguely masculine, but really only served to accentuate the femininity of his cheekbones. Lingering adolescent blemishes were covered with a white powder that matched his pallid tone. Fragrant oils were dabbed on his pulse points, and his long eyelashes were brushed apart with a tiny comb of delicate bone that only Edward was trusted enough to bring close to Oswald's eyes.

Once he was deemed presentable, Oswald was ushered towards the front of the castle. Coronations in Gotham were a matter of excess and wealth, usually, but this occasion was different. Oswald was being crowned out of necessity, not after the stepping down or assassination of the old King. The people needed a ruler, and he was their only option; this knowledge caused his steps to almost falter. He was kept moving by the two men at his sides, Alfred and Edward, both of whom had an arm held close for him to hold on to.

Every part of the ceremony held some meaning or symbolism; it took place in front of the castle so that the people could look upon their new King, to show that he was accessible despite his station. The guard that lined Oswald's path were clad in ceremonial armor, heavy and impractical, to show the strength of the realm had not faltered during the change of King. Red speckled carnations, deep plum tulips, and delicate white alstroemeria were everywhere, from lampposts to lapels, an emblem of fertility and growth.

Everyone who was anyone in Gotham was there. The aristocracy crowded out the poor to get a glimpse of Oswald, to dissect his appearance and visually critique every part of his being. Merchants and bakers had closed up shop because it was illegal to operate on Coronation days. Musicians played cheerful, patriotic music that barely carried over the noise of the crowd. The homeless and vagrants took perch on buildings and partitions to see better as Oswald approached. The castle was high, overlooking the City of Gotham, imposing and protective.

When he reached the edge of the castle grounds, a hush fell over sea of people. A number of officials stood there in full regalia, waiting for Oswald's approach. The Captain of the Guard, Sir Harvey Bullock, stood beside the Minister of Religion, the honorable Nathaniel Barnes. Between them, the house Historian, the white-haired Sid, who would document this event later. The Speaker of the house and Crown Bearer, who would swear Oswald into office, was Peter Gordon, whose son James ruled as the current Duke of Keystone.

The Speaker gave his speech while Oswald mostly tuned him out, retaining only bits and pieces. He had heard it before, when his older brother Richard would make his siblings practice the coronation ceremony with him.

“Yes, I will.” Oswald responded when necessary; he swore to protect and provide for Gotham, to uphold its values above all else.

At the end of the speech, Oswald knelt, bowing his head, the act itself symbolic of his role, that he would bow to the needs of the Kingdom and remain humble. He wasn't entirely sure how honest he was being, but the ceremony had to be done. Barnes blessed him and the crown before Peter picked it up. Oswald's heart began to race, anxiety welling up in his ribcage. With that crown, he would be trapped. He would be without the freedoms he had once known, chained to a throne he had never hoped for. He would live and die in that castle, bound to his subjects and the land itself.

When the crown was first laid upon his head, Oswald worried it would be too heavy, and not fit him right.

A smile crossed his lips when it settled perfectly. Oswald had knelt as a Prince, but when he rose, he was King. A new, strange feeling replaced the fluttering in his chest with a calm he had never known before as he looked to the crowd.

“People of Gotham! To you I have but one thing to say! As your King, I will do everything within my power to ensure that our place in this world is one of the highest esteem! The death of my beloved family may have shaken us, but Gotham will never fall! We are resilient, we are strong!” He proclaimed, then thrust a fist into the air.

The people followed suit, erupting into cheers and applause.

 


	4. Initial Address

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald speaks to the Court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of your comments. You keep me motivated. 
> 
> If you enjoy this please consider leaving a comment or bookmarking, it means a lot to me. <3

Oswald's fingers drummed on the arm of the throne as he observed the members of the Court filing in. They were many in number, and in some cases dubious in actual role; there were a few faces Oswald only fleetingly recognized. They were likely those placed in honorary roles as a reward for meritorious service under his Father, and served little purpose other than to use up resources until their deaths. For the most part, though, everyone was at least _somewhat_ useful to the functioning of the castle and Kingdom as a whole. He had half a mind to do away with majority of the people in the room.

Unlike two of the other four Kingdoms, Gotham's capital did not change. There were strengths and weaknesses in this. The City of Gotham and its castle were heavily fortified, and stood as a beacon to the rest of the realm of strength and consistency. Neither war nor treason had ever changed that fact, nor would it ever. The only other realm that did this was Metropolis; Argo and Kandor's capital moved, along with their council. Oswald expected that had something to do with the tempestuous nature of both Kingdoms. Kandor especially seemed incapable of maintaining a stable government due to their overly complicated noble system; titles and lands passed hands as easily as clothing on the island, and the people seemed content in their chaos.

Argo also changed capitals now and again. The reason, Oswald assumed, was due to their positioning on the map and the tendency towards war. It was surrounded on all sides by the other nations, and its people were a stubborn and paranoid lot. They fought most often amongst themselves, but tended to also direct their aggression at Gotham and Metropolis now and again in pointless conflicts that accomplished nothing. Their current peace with Gotham was tentative, at best, and the main source of Oswald's concerns. Peace was brokered though King Tucker, not King Oswald, and Argonites tended not to respect agreements with the dead.

Oswald leaned back on his throne, trying as well as he could to maintain some air of royalty, head held proud, looking slightly down his hooked nose at the assembly of bodies awaiting his words. This was his first address to the Court as King, and he refused to allow his nerves to get the best of him. He and Alfred had practiced his speech and tone at length the night before to rid Oswald of any leftover informal lingo that might still be there from his and Edward's travels.

Once no one else seemed to be filing in, Oswald shifted to stand. The throne sat upon a raised platform large enough to pace, a stage of sorts for all formal addresses. With no Queen, his mother's throne had been removed from the room, the throne in which Oswald sat being shifted to the left to occupy the platform to the middle. It made the place seem barren, lifeless, like most things seemed that past week without his mother there. She had always lit up the room – Oswald firmly stopped the thoughts from beginning, clasping his hands behind his back and standing as tall as he was able. Now was not the time to lose composure. All heads were bowed in anticipation of his command.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the Court, you may raise your heads. My hope is that you may always look upon your King as someone who you see as not only a ruler, but a fellow countryman.” Oswald had taken that particular bit of his address from a portion of his late father's opening address. Familiarity propagates warmth, and Oswald's one wish was to be revered the way King Tucker had been, not spurned or merely tolerated. Though the members of the Court might not remember his father's words precisely, Oswald's line of thought was that hearing them might trigger some sort of sympathetic response. He was correct; small smiles crossed many a lip, and many steeled gazes softened.

“These have been a troubled few weeks, I know. Vile illness obeys no border, respects no title. I know that many of you have lost friends and family to this foul disease; so, too, have I. My beloved parents, wise and kind, my brothers, strong and brave. Even now my heart is heavy with sorrow... But we _must_ carry on!” Oswald's hands moved to his front, balling into fists with intent to punctuate his words.

“We must hold our losses in our hearts, but we must not falter. We must continue to work to maintain peace within our borders as well as outside of them. We cannot stop, because the world will not stop for us! We are resilient, we are strong!” He repeated the words from his coronation speech; other recycled words from speeches long past, read many times over in his youth. It was practically Gotham's motto.

“The flu that struck so many down is no longer present in the castle, and is moving swiftly out of our fair city. I will see to relief efforts for those in the countryside, without access to fine physicians such as ours, so that the smallfolk might not suffer tragedy as keenly as we here have. Our healers will continue to work to find the way to overcome this beast that has wrought so much havoc. Until that day, I, at least, will remain steadfast; allow me, my people, to be your anchor and your beacon, to hold you steady and to guide you.” Oswald moved back towards his throne as his voice softened; when someone spoke without much volume to a room that was merely interested before, that room became rapt, craning necks to hear better.

The roaring applause received once his speech was over filled Oswald's chest with pride. It was a strange, heady feeling that he had only felt fleetingly before – nothing as intense as this. He sat back on the throne partially to signify that he was done speaking and partially to quell the bit vertigo that crept into his head. It was overwhelming and new, to be so... _visible_ , to be so known. The only person who had ever hung on his words like that was Edward. His Edward, who stood next to a column, tall and handsome, grinning with the giddy adoration that filled Oswald's body with warmth to see.

Oswald raised a hand, silencing the room. He had been mulling over a decision, a train of thought, since before the crown had touched his brow for the first time. The question of Edward, and where the man stood in this new world in which they were both relative strangers. He knew that he couldn't bear the position he was thrust into by himself. They were always at their strongest together.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. I know that when a new King is crowned, changes are expected. I know there have been whispers as to whether or not I will overhaul the castle's staff and strip titles. You need not worry; your roles are safe, out of respect for my late Father. He hand-picked most of you, and he was not a man to make decisions arbitrarily. Those who have left us for the great beyond have left empty spaces in the castle, but those will be filled in time by chosen on qualification and recommendation of existing staff... There is only one real change that will be implemented today.” The young King made sure all attention was focused on him. He could see worry in a few faces, faces that he would make sure to remember should anything go awry in the days ahead.

“This change is the addition of a new position within the Court – or, perhaps I should say, the revival of a role long unfilled.” He gave a smile, and turned his attention to his lover. “I am appointing Edward Nygma as my Royal Adviser. Edward, please come forward.”

A whisper overtook the crowd, a wave of confusion. The role had been neglected strictly out of superstition for many generations of Cobblepots. Three consecutive Kings and one Queen had been assassinated or set up for assassination by their own advisers, people trusted by not only the Royal family but by the Kingdom itself. Power was a vicious thing, leeching away reason and loyalty.

What the court didn't know was that Edward held more than Oswald's trust. Within his hands laid Oswald's heart and soul. If Edward, for some reason, desired Oswald's death and an ascent to power, Oswald would bend willingly to give it to him. The only reason the lanky brunet was being appointed to that position was because marriage was out of the question.

“Silence!” Oswald commanded, ceasing the whispers with a smooth, practiced tenor. “Edward has long been a companion of mine, and his judgment and advice have long served me well. Though his role before was merely my valet, he has proven himself for over a decade as being wise and logical... His loyalty has never wavered. I expect each and every one of you to show him the respect that he has earned. Edward, do you have anything you wish to say?”

Like chided children the room fell silent, though the air of doubt lingered. Edward stepped on to the platform, off to his left. He towered above the mass of bodies, gazing down upon them with an expression of gentle neutrality.

“I am deeply, deeply honored to accept this position. It is... unexpected, but I do believe I will thrive in it. I hope to be able to work with and consult with all of you in the near future, for the betterment of Gotham.” Edward bowed, a bit stiffly, to the crowd. His hand twitched a little at his side as Oswald observed him. Were they in private, Oswald's own would still it.

The new King of Gotham was well aware that his decision would be questioned secretly, but that mattered little.

In time they would come to accept Edward's place.

If not, Oswald would replace the entire pit of vipers with those who would.

 


	5. Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feast is held in Gotham's castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you guys are still enjoying it. If you are, please feel free to leave a comment or send me a message! <3

The next two weeks were loaded down with a bevvy of activities that Oswald could, quite simply, have done without. Representatives from every Kingdom were slowly arriving to take part in the coronation banquet celebrating the new King's safe installation into office, and he was expected to greet them all at one point or another for the sake of diplomacy. The representatives were mostly foreign Dukes, Barons and Knights, but Oswald noticed that there were also a large number of aristocratic bachelorettes. The only news that traveled faster then that of Oswald's crowning was the news that he was unwed.

“I will be cordial. I **will** be cordial. I will not lose my temper and leave the feast early. I will drink myself stupid in order to tolerate this wholly unnecessary ceremony...” Oswald spoke softly into the full length mirror as he adjusted his clothing, trying to encourage himself to actually leave the bedroom in which he hid.

“You'll do well, Sir.” Alfred seemed more than a little amused at Oswald's personal motivational speech as he smoothed out the man's cloak.

“Alfred, don't you have other things you could be doing right now? The feast is very soon.” Oswald shot a look back at the man.

“I was worried that you wouldn't leave the room if it were just me telling you to.” Edward chimed in from his seat by Oswald's bed, hands folded neatly in his lap.

“Of course I'll leave the room... I may not want to do this, but I know it's necessary. Keeping up appearances is everything to these people. The only excuse that would be accepted is if I were to suddenly fall out the window and break something on my person...” Oswald glanced longingly over his shoulder at one of the bay windows. It would be so easy...

“I would have you patched up and brought to the feast post-haste, Sir. That isn't an excuse that anyone would accept.” Alfred pointed out, chuckling softly.

“It's just a thought.” Oswald defended, smoothing his hair before placing the crown back atop his head.

“As King, you must keep your feet firmly planted on the floor – not your head on the ground below.” Edward chuckled as he spoke, standing up from his spot.

“I could plant my feet on the ground. They would just be going rather fast.” Oswald returned, smiling to his lover. Alfred watched with a raised brow.

“No one is hitting the ground while I'm around.” The Steward insisted, looking down at Oswald like an overbearing parent. “Now come; there are people awaiting you in the hall. Lots of lovely noblewomen for you to choose from as well, according to the guest list...”

“Wonderful.” Oswald muttered. It was impossible to remove all of the disdain from his voice, but Alfred either didn't catch it or didn't care enough to comment as they exited the bedchamber.

Flanked by two guardsmen and preceded by Steward and Adviser, Oswald walked swiftly to the Grand Hall. It was already buzzing with activity as the occupants awaited Oswald's arrival. The sight was almost overwhelming; Lords and Ladies clothed in finery that could feed a village if sold, an excess of food of every type presented beautifully on the long banquet tables, casks upon casks of fine Gotham ale and imported Kandorian wines being tapped to make sure the entire room could become adequately drunk. Oswald remembered with great disgust what tended to happen after feasts like these. The occupants would get stupid drunk and run giggling to the guest chambers to rut like unrestrained animals, the sounds of their copulation filling the halls... and subsequently keeping a certain young Prince awake and listening in abject horror. A horror that did not diminish when he grew up and found out the source of the noises. More than one bastard had been sired in his fine castle.

Oswald drew in a deep breath as he moved to his seat, a smaller throne at the high table that faced the others. Once he was seated, and Edward at his side, Alfred made himself scarce; despite his importance, he was relegated to a far table designated specifically for servants. If he had not promoted Edward, that would be where he sat as well. Oswald expected Alfred wouldn't be able to sit still and enjoy the feast, though. The man was always on the move, watching his underlings and puttering back and forth between parts of the castle to make sure things were in order.

The entire night was designed to pander to the appetites of potential allies and showcase the wealth of Gotham that persisted despite the horrors of the past month. Oswald's cup was filled the moment he sat down, his plate heaped with far more food than he would manage to eat. The hall began to quiet, dozens of faces turning to look at him. Something about that instance was more terrifying then all of his public appearances thus far, though. The people who sat in that hall were those of influence, those holding power in one form or another, whether that power be familial relation or authority in distant lands. His every move would be watched, judged, and brought back to their homes, reported to the Kings of the other three realms.

Or perhaps he was just being paranoid.

He set his worry aside to revisit later, deciding it best to simply be on his best behavior.

“Friends, welcome to Gotham! I hope that your journeys were easy and that the sky shone bright for you all on your travels.” Oswald declared to the hushed onlookers, raising his glass. “Enjoy all that Gotham has to offer!”

He made no big speech, made no grand gesture but one of simple friendship. It was better that way; no one went to a feast in order to listen to someone talk. They went to a feast to eat, drink, and be merry, something that Gotham was in sore need of. The crowd clapped and the noise restarted, laughter and talking and toasting commencing all around the Grand Hall. Oswald did not yet eat, preferring to wet his palate with wine until someone approached for an introduction.

Something that took all of two brief minutes to happen.

The pair who arrived at the table were quite the picture. One was a monster of a man, towering over most. He wore light armor, iridescent chainmaille, designed for mobility and the deflection of sword strokes. Upon his back was a shield, and a short sword was attached to his belt with an ornate metal scabbard. Oswald half wondered if the beast was capable of proper speech. The girl beside him was a slight, delicate looking thing, dressed to the nines, with blonde hair and a dainty tiara upon her head. When she curtseyed, it was with a grace born of lifelong grooming in the arts of courtly manners and demeanor.

“It is a pleasure to formally meet His Majesty, the King of Gotham.” She said, respectful and soft-voiced. “I am the Princess Silver St-Cloud Galavan of Argo. My father sends his regards and regrets that he cannot be here in person to welcome you to your new station. He also offers his condolences on the deaths of your family members.”

“I am also pleased to meet you, Princess Silver. Your fathers words are appreciated.” Oswald bowed his head lightly, though something about the child unnerved him.

He knew why she was sent. She was 16, old enough for a husband, and a marriage between their two kingdoms would be one of two things... A blessing of peace, or a portent of Gotham's doom. The wedding would be the most lavish event in centuries, and would either be hailed as the smartest or most foolhardy move that had ever been made. Silver was well known among the noble world for being shrewd, cunning, and as intelligent as she was beautiful. She was the most civilized of the Argonites, taking notes from the Metropolisian and Gotham aristocracy, crafting her identity to be both separate and inexorably linked to her father, King Theo Galavan of Argo. Oswald had no interest whatsoever in the child, though he might feel compelled later on to have her watched while in the castle.

“He hopes that you will seek to maintain peace between our nations with the peace brokered by he and your later father, King Tucker.” She continued. Her voice was strong enough that it defied the noise in the room. Oswald nodded lightly, offering a smile that held no emotion, including the derision that he could barely contain.

“Of course, Princess. I desire nothing more than for continued peace between our people. War serves no purpose in an enlightened realm, don't you agree?” He asked. It was the sort of non-question you could only answer in one way, designed to betray any hidden emotion. Silver's demeanor did not waver.

“I agree wholeheartedly. I have never seen a reason to send good men to war when they could be at home, building families and bolstering their respective realms.” She answered, her response smooth, almost trained. The mention of family confirmed to Oswald the fact that she was likely there to seduce him into some political marriage, a thought that almost set his stomach off the wine he brought to his lips.

“Mm, I agree as well. I hope you will enjoy the bounty that our humble Kingdom holds during your stay.” Oswald said this dismissively, taking a drink of his wine.

“I already am. Many thanks for your generosity, King Oswald.” She bowed her head lightly, and looked to her guard. “Come, Sir Aaron. You deserve a drink.”

The bullish man gave a wordless grunt, and she led him away. Oswald's lip twitched a little; _King Oswald_? It was deliberately informal. The child was trying to worm her way into familiarity. They were only the first in a series of women brought to him with their guards, fathers, or stewards; Oswald exchanged pleasantries with each, remaining as kind and personable as he could manage to be, gradually becoming more and more drunk as the night wore on. It was the only way he could stomach the thought of being forced into a marriage with one of those half-wits.

Each bachelorette had something to offer; most boasted lands and powerful fathers, another her beauty, another still made hints of the fertility that was common in her family line. The latter made him pale visibly. The thought was abhorrent. Oswald had never been interested in marital relations with a woman... or with a man, for that matter. His relationship with Edward went much deeper than the physical. They belonged to one another in heart and soul; the body was secondary, as far as they were concerned. The physical attraction was there, of course, but the appetite that most men seemed to have for sex wasn't present in Oswald. It was in Edward, but it was rare that he wished to act on it, and even then required little more then touch for the need to be sated. If he wanted more he had never mentioned it, understanding that Oswald thought of it as distasteful and messy at best.

Ed remained mostly quiet during the feast, observing the room as was he was apt to do. Whenever Oswald was approached and an attempt was made to seduce the young King, Ed stared daggers at the women and their guardians, but kept his thoughts strictly to himself. Oswald could only imagine what the man was feeling, knowing that one day he had to take a back seat to some stranger, that he had to watch as the man who should be his husband was forced into a loveless sham of a marriage in order to avoid an untimely death. Oswald cared less about his own aching heart then he did Edward's, knowing how deeply any hurt could affect him. He required constant reassurance that Oswald's love was true, that he was as unwavering and steadfast as the Adviser himself was.

Now that their life plans had been disrupted, Oswald imagined those reminders would need to happen more frequently. Constant damage control was something he was entirely willing to do if it meant keeping his man at his side, something he secretly enjoyed. Ed's tendency towards possessiveness was reassuring to Oswald. A love that bordered on obsession was comforting to the least loved son of Tucker Cobblepot and earned the same in return.

The feast concluded hours later, when Oswald's belly bulged slightly with wine and food, and many of the guests had retreated to their accommodations for the night. He rose after a brief, surprisingly coherent announcement detailing the tournament that was to take place later in the season. There was promise of invitations being sent away with each Kingdom's representatives.

It was difficult to walk, the corners of his vision fuzzy from the alcohol. The hallway seemed absurdly long as he leaned on his lover for support; the guards accompanying him didn't question this, nor did they question when Oswald dragged his tall Adviser into his room and barred the door after entering. The two had always been seen as the 'closest of friends', and Oswald's station did not allow for his lessers to do anything but whisper rumors... And as far as he knew, they didn't even do that.

“Oswald, I should probably be in my own chambers...” Edward said it dully, offering no resistance when Oswald tugged him towards the bed.

“You should, but I'm King and I say you stay here beside me tonight.” Oswald mumbled, chuckling as he moved to the bed.

“I think you may be drunk.” Edward giggled at Oswald's stubbornness, shrugging off his own cloak before attending to Oswald's.

“I think I may be. And I'm very tired, that feast was exhausting... So humor me.” Oswald nodded, helping him remove the tighter, more restrictive layers; it didn't take much time before they were both clad in plain white undergarments and laid out in the bed, wrapped up in one anothers arms.

“I will have to be up and clothed before you tomorrow, Ozzie... I don't want anyone to--” Edward started, long fingers sliding to the small of Oswald's back and up into his hair. The drunken King put a hand over his mouth, silencing him.

“I love you, Edward. Go to sleep.” He whispered it.

He wanted his last thoughts before he gave in to sleep to be of love, not of careful maneuvering and empty beds.

Beneath Oswald's hand, Edward smiled; against it, he returned the sentiment.

 


	6. Bride Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As guests come in from the surrounding Kingdoms, Oswald is introduced to a number of eligible bachelorettes... to his dismay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous mentions of various names in the DC universe that I've tweaked to fit into my little world. This chapter contains a fairly heavy amount of systematic medieval sexism, just to warn you all... and this chapter isn't super plot-heavy; the next few chapters will be, though! Due to the holidays and New Years coming up, it may take a while before I post again, but never fear. I'm still writing.
> 
> Thank you for your comments/kudos, etc. :D

The rules that went along with arranging a royal marriage were many in number and seemed, in cases, to border on the absurd. Nothing was a hard-set finality, of course, but a King who shirked the standards invited criticism. If one was to go against tradition, the King in question had better be excellent and righteous in order to evade plots and scandal. Oswald's father had married outside of the commonly accepted ordinances when he brought Oswald's beloved mother to Gotham; she was Kandorian and from a family of minor wealth and vague title. He had avoided any issue by proving himself to be a competent and well rounded ruler, gaining the adoration of the people.

A King was never to marry too far below his station; Princesses of other Kingdoms were rare to come by and considered perfect matches in terms of political weight and strategy. The daughters or sisters of Dukes and Earls were more frequently picked from, and in rare cases a prominent Baron's child could be chosen. A bride without title or familial lands was seen as nothing better than a commoner, and would garner little respect from the people.

Any fathers or elder brothers who wished their daughters or sisters to marry a King was to present them formally to the King at one point or another for consideration. This was a practice Oswald found particularly cringe worthy. They would dress up their women in finery, cake powder and rouges upon their faces, starve them to ensure they fit into corsets and gowns, drill etiquette and manners into them so that they flattered the ego while still remaining demure. Like livestock they would be carted in front of their potential husbands and shown off as if they weren't even in the room, only speaking when spoken to and being chosen based mostly on beauty. The young King pitied them for the life they were forced to live.

Oswald had always been thankful that his father had met his mother years prior to becoming King and promised to bring her to Gotham to marry... and that he was a man of his word, marrying Gertrud after the war. She never had to face the humiliation of having her personality and dignity stripped away to please others. Their love was true and Gotham was gifted a Queen worthy of it. She was cunning and smart, lovely to behold and devoted to her family.

Among the more absurd ordinances was that any proposed marriage was expected to go through the Minister of Religion. He could approve or disapprove for whatever reason he deemed, but that did not mean that a disapproval banned one from marrying the other. It only meant that the Minister could denounce the pairing even when married. It was an archaic tradition that barely held up by modern standards, a throwback to a time when the King was considered to have divine right and needed protecting from evil women. Nowadays it was unheard of for the Minister to disapprove.

Oswald squirmed in his seat, unable to sit completely still. His mind was racing. Did he really have to pick one of these women? Or could he get away with holding off, citing that it was more important to focus on the health of the Kingdom? The entire world knew he was unwed, and the upcoming tournament provided the various Lords and Ladies a chance to parade their of age children before him. Visitors from the other three lands had been arriving steadily over the past month, but it was only in the past week that potential brides were being shown to him.

He had lost count after the fifth same-faced Noble girl, and had stopped listening to their fathers and brothers after the second. He smiled, made pleasantries, but the gestures were empty. A brief reprieve came during the mid-day meal hour, that Oswald chose to take in his bedchambers, claiming a headache that made too much noise unbearable for the time being. He planned on making a miraculous recovery once the hour was over.

“This is extremely tedious.” He mumbled as he removed the crown. It made his brow sweat tremendously when it was on for hours.

“I agree.” Edward replied as he moved to sit down, as was warranted. He had been on his feet since breakfast.

Oswald moved to him, pulling his lover's angular face to his chest, arms wrapping around his shoulders. The bit of closeness was comforting to both. The young King could feel the tension in Edward's shoulders melting away as he slumped gradually against the smaller man's chest, nose pressing into the spot beneath his pectorals to inhale his scent. Oswald chuckled a little. When they were much younger, the habit put him off. Edward was always sniffing him at strange times, citing only that Oswald smelled nice, or like flowers, or “warm” – a scent he had never been able to clarify.

“Have any of them caught your eye?” The Adviser mumbled against the soft fabric shrouding Oswald's chest.

“I don't expect anyone to catch my eye, Eddie.” Oswald said it with a bit of irritation. Edward didn't react, knowing that it wasn't directed towards him. He brought a hand up and caught one of Oswald's, just briefly enough to remove the glove that kept it warm. The small man had always had poor blood circulation, and it wasn't uncommon for him to wear light gloves year round. He smiled, placing his cool hand on Edward's heated cheek. Always in tune with one another, Oswald knew the skin-to-skin contact would ease the nerves frayed by the stress of the day.

“I know, but we have to at least give them consideration. What about Lady Julie Madison?” Edward asked. Oswald scoffed.

“That woman's voice is as flat as the Aluran Plains of Argo. I don't care how prominent her family is, if I had to hear that for the rest of my life I'd poison her myself.” Oswald dismissed the idea.

“Her family practically built Metropolis, my love.” Edward tone was amused.

“Then let King Kent marry her off to one of his sons.” Oswald tapped Edward's temple.

“Fair enough. What of Lady Dawn Golden, of Argo?” Ed tried.

“Did you see her staring at herself in every reflection? I can't be with someone more vain than I am. And also, her mouth is too big. It would give me night terrors.” Oswald stroked Edward's curls, chuckling.

“Her mouth is too big? You're just making excuses now.” Edward barked out a laugh, one arm hooking around Oswald's thin waist.

“Perhaps I am, but I would be the one staring into that gaping maw in the dead of night, not you.” Oswald reasoned, smirking.

“Alright, I suppose that's fair as well. We can't have you dreaming that you're going to fall into some pit of no return, can we? Hmm... What of Lady Tiffany Hale? She seemed kind, with an appropriately sized mouth.” Ed offered, thumb stroking Oswald's hip.

“Her? The girl in love with Duke Grayson? What if she figures out about us and stirs up some plot because she's jealous her love can never be requited again? I won't have it.” Oswald shook his head; Lady Hale and the current Duke Grayson had been lovers at one point, but the Duke was promised to another and their relationship could not be. Tragic, yes, but Oswald wanted no part in it.

“Have you always been so paranoid?” Edward laughed again, looking up from Oswald's chest.

“Every moment of every day, my darling.” Oswald reassured him, stroking his cheek at the same pace that Ed's hand stroked his hip.

“Then I would love to hear your reason for your inevitable rejection of the Ladies McKillen.” Ed seemed to be taking pleasure in the way Oswald shot every potential bride down.

“The Kandorian twins? My reasons for avoiding those two are **significantly** less far fetched than the others! That family is nothing but trouble!” Oswald squeaked out, looking down at the man he cradled to his chest.

“Those are all rumors, Oswald. They're from one of the longest standing Kandorian houses in the realm...” Ed retorted calmly.

“And they got there by sabotaging every other House on Kandor. Duke McKillen became Duke by killing his brother in a duel... And then he even married his dead brother's wife! That's no rumor.” Oswald balked.

“It was an honorable duel, though, wasn't it? And it's not unheard of to marry a brother's widow...” Ed could barely contain the giggle that threatened to escape as he egged the other man on.

“The blade was poisoned **and** serrated, that's overkill. Honorable duels call for straight blades **not** coated with Viper's Milk.” Oswald shook his head. “Usually one marries a brother's widow when the brother in question dies in war, or too young, not because you murdered them. I can't imagine wanting to marry someone else's widow, regardless...”

“You would not want to marry a woman who was single and a virgin, either.” Ed pointed out.

“That's beside the point. Come now – who else are you going to propose?” Oswald decided to encourage the ridiculous conversation. It had clearly helped both of their moods.

“How about Princess Silver?” Ed brought up the one bachelorette that represented the largest source of pressure. Oswald's brows furrowed, lips thin in a grimace.

“Never. I will not marry that Argonite child. I do not trust her or that beast of a guard.” Oswald returned to a more serious tone of voice. He found himself gripping Edward's hair a little, in a way that was almost clinging.

“People will expect you to choose her, Oswald. She is the best prospect in terms of station and the treaty.” Edward reasoned. “To deny her and all the others might cause more questioning than we can reasonably quiet.”

“That little girl is a snake, just as the rest of her line is. If the Court doesn't like that I will not marry her, so be it. If Argo doesn't like that I would choose otherwise, so be it. I will have our borders fortified and our people ready for a battle.” Oswald knew it sounded a bit petulant – but perhaps it was a necessary evil. He already felt uneasy having the Princess in the castle, knowing that she reported everything back to her father. If etiquette didn't dictate she be allowed to stay until the end of the tournament, Oswald would have sent her away as soon as she appeared.

“Very well.” Edward conceded easily, other arm looping the small man's waist, squeezing him lightly. Oswald relaxed, leaning down to kiss the top of his head.

“I will not allow Argo to dictate Gotham, through Princess Silver or otherwise. Will you support my decisions?” Oswald asked, a tinge of worry in his tone.

“Of course I will. I will support anything you decide to do, Oswald, as I have always done.” Edward consoled him gently, patting his hip.

“Good. We have only one another, it's important we work together.” Oswald smiled.

“We have Gotham, Oswald. It belongs to you – and through you, to a lesser extent, it belongs to me.” Edward reminded him. “Your word is law here. Keep your eyes forward, on our future, and I will keep watch on our backs for any plots or deception. And for what it's worth, I was sort of testing you when it came to Princess Silver. She's got reptile eyes.”

“Reptile eyes? I did call her a snake, but...” Oswald chuckled, smoothing Edward's curls back.

“Have you ever looked into a lizard's eyes? They're soulless, as if they only exist to eat and survive.” Edward shook his head. Oswald tilted his, considering it for a moment, and then decided he could see it as well.

“I can't say that I ever paid any mind to the little scuttlers, no. But I will take your word. She does have large, unblinking eyes, I agree with that much.” Oswald nodded before gently beginning to pull away. “We should go back out... How many more do I have to talk to today?”

“Two, from what I know. Lady Liza Fairbairn of Kandor, and Lady Cheyenne Freemont of the Fawcett duchy.” Edward pouted the tiniest amount when Oswald was no longer against him, shifting to stand up.

“Cheyenne? Oh, heavens. That ginger haired brute? Her father is really trying to pawn her off on me?” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. She was a Gotham-born noble, one that he and Edward both knew.

“You have to at least grant her an audience.” Edward gave an amused giggle, picking up the crown and placing it on Oswald's head once more.

“I still haven't forgiven that beast for locking you in the wine cellar when we were children and then getting me into trouble when I punched her for it.” Oswald muttered bitterly.

“I do adore it when you're protective of me, Ozzie.” Edward told him, lifting up the earlier discarded glove to put it back on the King.

“Well, you are mine. I won't have people treating you poorly when I can do something about it.” Oswald said it firmly, lifting his hand and spreading his fingers.

“I know, and for that I love you. Well, that and other things.” Edward smiled as he slid the glove back on to his lover's hand.

“Don't get sentimental now or I'll refuse to go and see those women.” Oswald warned playfully.

Edward caught his chin in hand and tilted Oswald's head up, leaning down to place a tender kiss to his lips. Oswald's heart fluttered in his chest, hands gripping Edward's forearms.

“Very well.” Edward stepped back from him, and moved to open the door, walking out.

With wide eyes and a foolish half-grin, Oswald followed, internally damning the other man for reddening his cheeks and leaving him there so quickly. At least he made the day tolerable.

The handsome cad.

 


	7. Tournament, Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Spring Tournament is underway!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with this guys! The holidays were hectic, but I should be back on schedule with posting now. <3

Springtime in Gotham was a sight to behold. The last vestiges of winter had come and gone, not affecting the grand City of Gotham as much as the countryside. The snow had melted and the days became longer, ice and sleet giving way to gentle rains and blooming flowers. People filled the streets, days of fear over the mysterious flu all but forgotten with the disappearance of harsh winter winds. Clothing had become lighter in make, more vivid in color, filling the busy streets with a brightness lost in the colder months.

And Oswald was nothing short of gleeful, excited for the breaking of the dawn. As the sun rose, the Spring Tournament began, ringing in the beginning of the growing season. It was a celebration that the new King had always enjoyed. The grandeur of it all appealed to him on every level. Everyone wore their best clothing. The smells of fresh food passing hands. The knights on noble steeds awaiting their turn at the joust. The giggles of children chasing one another, pretending to be knights (A practice he and Edward had taken part in many years ago). The suddenly generous drunk nobles sharing what they had to celebrate the bounty of the Springtime. Even the impromptu bare chested wrestling matches that tended to ignite between commoners in the mud held a place of affection for Oswald, who always found himself rapt at the sight as a younger man.

As King, he could no longer wander about the grounds, taking in the sights, but his position was not without its merits in those terms. Everything he wanted was brought to him. If he wanted wine, someone would fetch it. If he wanted to speak to someone, they were obliged to come at his command. The raised platform in which he sat provided a perfect view of the grounds. To his far left, the pits, where knights from each realm practiced and trained in their designated sections. Far right were the commoners seating, crowded and many in number. Closer, and on either side, were tents and seating for those of noble birth. Young Ladies gossiped among one another, whispering about the Knights they fancied. Young Lords placed bets with their peers while secretly wishing they could be out there fighting.

To his front was the main arena. Everything was in place for the first joust that would take place at noontime. In Gotham, the entire tournament led up to a grand melee, but the leaders of the melee were chosen through a series of jousts. Each Kingdom was allowed six knights in order to compete against each other Kingdom twice. Two knights from two different Kingdoms would compete in the joust, and the winner would go against the knight who won the next joust. The losers were eliminated from the competition.

If it happened that one Kingdom was doing better then the others, and two knights from one Kingdom ended up paired for a joust, they would instead dual for the right to move on. If two knights from the same Kingdom were paired in the last bracket, it fell to the King to chose someone from another Kingdom, as well as who would compete against them. This had only happened once in the history of the Spring Tournament, generations before Oswald was born. It was expected that in this event, the Knights chosen would be fair, and that equal prizes would be given to the one left out.

The two winners of the entire joust would not only win prizes that included purses of gold and custom armor, but were then dubbed Captains of the Melee, and were able to pick from a pool of soldiers to command. All the best were sent in equal number from each kingdom; generals, cavalrymen, infantry, archers. Twenty-five made up the platoon, which then faced off in a mock-up of actual battle. There were no weapons that could kill without excessive force; arrows were merely shafts of wood, swords bore no point or edge, maces and flails were made of a wood that would break with too much force, but this did not change that there was the occasional death or major injury.

The melee took place on the evening third and last day of the tournament, and was considered the main event. Those among the winning took home prizes as well; gold and repute. Sometimes a Kingdom would offer special prizes to its victors, be it land or animals, and sometimes the participants would even use a win to impress a Lady they would have no business being with otherwise.

“Do you miss being in the Tournament, Captain?” Oswald looked to the side, where Sir Harvey Bullock sat, watching the crowd.

“May I speak honestly, your Majesty?” Harvey looked back to his King.

“Of course, Sir Harvey.” Oswald said with a small measure of affection.

Like Alfred, he had known Harvey his entire life. Though the man had barely paid mind to his existence growing up, he did protect him. The older man had saved him at least once, if not more times. The prime example was the madman who crept to Oswald's table during a feast when he was a mere ten years of age. In the blink of an eye, a dagger was at his throat, and at his feet as Harvey dispatched the would-be assassin with the practiced ease of a man who had been fighting throughout his entire existence. When Oswald went to travel with Edward, they were not allowed to leave unless with one or two guards specifically chosen by Harvey as those who could be trusted in both loyalty and skill.

“Then, I can tell you truthfully that there is nothing I miss about this.” Harvey said, brief in his sincerity.

“Really? You participated in so many... I have heard many stories of your fights. How you rode a horse whose hair was as red as yours, how you won the hand of that Kandorian Lady...” Oswald frowned lightly, not having expected that answer. He didn't know what had happened with that particular Lady, only that they had never ended up wed.

“Ah, my King. I wouldn't think to bore you with the details. I think I just got older and the same appeal did not hold for me. I certainly enjoyed them when I was there, but the thought of participating in a Tournament now makes my entire body ache.” Harvey gave a good-natured chuckle. The man was older now, beard graying and muscles losing their definition. A stomach once well toned now bulged, indicative of a shift in interest from swords to ale.

“I do not mind details, Sir Harvey. I was never strong like my brothers, but I did enjoy imaging what it would be like to be a Knight during these days, with the people cheering and hollering for you...” Oswald pushed gently, hoping to hear a little more. He was a lover of a good story. The small man was delighted when Harvey leaned back with a smirk, looking to him.

“That part was great and all, but the best part about the tournament was the feeling you got when you won a match. That no matter who you were or where you came from, or even what you'd done, if you were a knight and won a match, you were the _best_. When I won the entire tournament one year, Melee and all, I felt important. I felt like I was a noble, and that all my work had finally paid off. I grew up on a farm, you know.” Harvey had decided to humor him, it seemed, and Oswald's eyes went wide at the revelation. Imagining the man in a freshly plowed field was almost as difficult as picturing him as a child in one.

“Really? How did you end up a Knight, then? That is so hard to picture, I've always known you as... Well, what you are. Sir Bullock.” Oswald chuckled gently.

“Mostly luck.” Harvey shrugged a shoulder, pushing his long hair behind his shoulder.

“What, did some armor land on your family's land?” Oswald smirked.

“That isn't too far off, actually. Armor, yes, but the man in the armor was more interesting. Sir Daniel Dix, a man of some renown, whose Lord was our new Adviser's father. Some Argonites had taken him by surprise along the border, where our farm was. He took them all out, but not before they killed his horse and hobbled him. Poor fellow; I found him laying on the ground groaning, holding his midsection with the arm that wasn't hurt...” Harvey began; Oswald listened, nodding in interest.

“You and your family nursed him back to health?” Oswald smiled, leaning forward to hear him better over the increasing noise. The sun was high in the sky and people had gathered for the opening joust that would take place shortly.

“Aye, and to repay us for all we'd done he wanted to take me in as a squire. His had been killed in the attack, and though I was older at the time, I already had a bit'a training. When you're on an outlying farm everyone knows how to fight to protect what you've got. I'd always been quick on my feet in my younger years, and I was great with a halberd and broadswords of all makes by the time I was 12 years.” Harvey nodded. The memory of his younger years seemed to hold a fair amount of fondness.

“Wonderful! So you went with him right away?” Oswald grinned, imagining a teenaged Harvey with amusement, chasing a thief with a homemade halberd.

“No, actually. My father, heaven rest him, fought him tooth and nail to keep me there, because I was his eldest son and was needed on the farm. It took Sir Dix two weeks, a fistfight, and a promise of payment to hire a new farmhand to get my da to agree to it. My mother was none too happy with me leaving either, weeping and insisting I write her at least once a week.” Harvey smiled fondly.

“It sounds like you have a lovely family. Do you miss them?” Oswald couldn't imagine his own father fighting to keep him around. The first time he and Ed had taken a trip out of the realm by themselves King Tucker barely seemed to notice.

“Of course. Ma is on her own now, aside from my siblings, but once a year they make the trip here to come see me. I still write them every week, and send a portion of my pay to keep the farm running in the best shape.” There was a touch of pride in his voice. Family was obviously important to the man, which made Oswald wonder about the Kandorian Lady the Captain had won the hand of.

It was a question Oswald would be unable to ask for the time being as the sound of the Herald's bugle playing lifted over the cacophony of festival noises, indicating the beginning of the tournament. Two mounted Knights moved to their respective positions, attended to by squires and fitted with lances. Four passes were allowed, and three lances per Knight. Sir Robert Greenwood of Argo was to face off with Sir Daniel Turpin of Metropolis. Two favored knights of their respective Kings, evenly matched in skill.

No matter how many times Oswald watched a joust, he still found himself enraptured by it. The shine of the Knight's armor in the sunlight, the perfectly groomed horses, the sheer _pageantry_ of it coupled with the inevitable violence of lance crashing into shield or chest was a delight to behold. The second pass earned no winner, and a broken lance on Argo's side. Oswald's fingers gripped the arm of his chair as the second pass nearly dismounted Metropolis' Knight.

“Stay neutral, love.” He felt Edward's breath against his ear, startling him.

Oswald gave a shame faced little smile. Edward was more interested in Oswald's reactions then the joust itself. He delighted in how expressive Oswald tended to be during events, but knew that he was not to show favor to any Knights not of Gotham. Such a thing could demoralize his own Knights, or spread rumors of secret alliances with other realms. He was lucky to have Edward there. The other man knew the nuances of the Court better than Oswald cared to.

The third pass sent the Metropolis Knight flying hard off his horse and on to his back; the round went to Sir Greenwood, who threw off his helm and boasted his victory in a way that made Oswald roll his eyes. The disgraced Metropolisian left without ceremony for his home camp. Twelve jousts were undertaken that day, and twelve victors celebrated that night; four from Gotham, filling Oswald with a patriotism he rarely felt, three from Argo and Metropolis, and a paltry two from Kandor.

Throughout the course of the day, Oswald felt as if he was being watched. This wasn't uncommon given his position, but there was something intent and distinctive about this. He wasn't uneasy over it – to make an attempt on a King's life during a tournament in his home country would be endlessly foolish and would almost certainly mean war between whichever kingdom the assassin was from. Shortly after the last joust of the day came, with Kandor's second victor being named, Oswald discovered the source.

It was a woman. When he caught her eye, she did not falter in her gaze. Instead, she lifted a hand and waved only her fingers, smirking slightly. Oswald was bewildered. The woman sat in Metropolis' noble section, but he had no idea who she was. She had not introduced herself beforehand, when Oswald was greeting guests and suffering through conversations with eligible women. Perhaps she had just arrived? Or perhaps she was the guest or wife of one of Metropolis' many noblemen?

“Edward... Do you know who she is? She has been watching me on and off for hours.” Oswald leaned over to his Adviser, who furrowed his brows and looked in the direction Oswald was looking.

“The blonde woman?” He adjusted his glasses. They were new and he was still getting used to the way they fit.

“Yes, the one who sits beside Earl Lang.” Oswald nodded a little, looking to his man.

“Ah, yes. I know of her. I believe she is the eldest daughter of Duke Kean of Cadmus in northern Metropolis. We've passed through their lands before.” Edward answered with a nod.

“That was... specific. I wish I knew where you stored all this information.” Oswald chuckled a little, looking back in the woman's direction. “I wonder why she stares so. Strange things, women are.” Oswald muttered; to his front, Harvey scoffed softly. Oswald ignored it, though he did note it in his mind.

“That they are. But it is of no real consequence. Were she some spy she would not watch you in such an obvious way, and if her family was interested in her marrying you they would have introduced the two of you more formally. Perhaps she just admires you. Those robes **are** splendid, after all.” Edward mumbled the last bit to avoid any unfamiliar ears that might whisper to familiar foes. Such affections had to be relegated to behind closed doors.

“Perhaps.” Oswald smiled brightly, adjusting his robes with pride.

The next time Oswald glanced her way, she was standing to leave, preoccupied with her companions. The young King tried to put it out of his mind.

 


	8. Tournament, Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tournament continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delays. I've had a serious lack of motivation for this particular story. I'll try to pick it up a bit.

The next day of the tournament was marred by an early morning storm that left many of Gotham's residents huddled inside their homes and beneath hastily sprung canopies. Oswald was pleased to see that it did not dampen spirits. It was still wonderfully noisy and joyful, and the joust continued as scheduled. He was further delighted when two of the three contestants from Argo were eliminated from the tournament before noontime. It was unfortunate, Oswald thought, that the boastful Sir Greenwood, did not have a match until late in the day.

Oswald had always enjoyed the rain. It filled the air with a scent that was unique and wonderful, the smell of wet flora. It was the smell of new life to come, of springtime and the harvest. It soothed his frantic mind when he was unable to sleep, the melodic drumming of raindrops against stone and glass often carving out his only trail to the land of sleep as a child. The only thing he enjoyed more about the rain then those things was the effect it had on his beloved. Edward's normally well-managed hair became fluffy and curled when the air was thick with moisture, which was a source of endlessly endearing irritation to the man. The entire day he would fuss with it, pushing it from his eyes and behind ears only for it to pop out, chestnut locks protesting confinement.

He found himself paying more attention to the way Edward absently adjusted his glasses then to the joust, as the tall man hoped to trap his hair beneath the frame. He averted his eyes only when Edward shot him a look, watching with amusement as a Gotham Knight positioned his lance perfectly to knock the lance from the Metropolisian Knight's grasp. It was the third pass, and second broken lance for Metropolis. They had one remaining. The Gotham Knight was playing it smart; his mounted skill was sub-par at best, but this man in particular was renowned as a duelist. Sir Waylon Jones of Gotham, a man so massive that his horse had to be bred specially. He was one of the few Knights in the world who preferred to fight on foot, in the front lines. Oswald found him to be utterly terrifying, and often counted his blessings that the mammoth was loyal to Gotham.

The last pass was an attempt on the Metropolisian's part to avoid a crack to the wrist, but they made the simple error of aiming the lance directly into the barreled chest of Sir Jones. Oswald was almost convinced that it would take a literal tree to dismount the large man, and his suspicions were mostly confirmed when Sir Jones took the hit by bearing into it rather then pushing back, the tip of the lance exploding into splinters of shattered wood. The crowd mostly hollered excitement at the prospect of a dual between the Knights, though there was a distinct lack of noise from Metropolis' section.

The dual was brief and violent; Gotham was declared the winner after only a few moments, and the Metropolisian Knight had to be helped out of the arena.

Oswald frowned a little at the next match-up; Sir Greenwood of Argo was pitted against Sir Garfield Logan of Kandor, a small man who was at a serious disadvantage size-wise. Unless he could dismount Greenwood, there was a real chance that Argo would be up against Gotham in the finals. Oswald leaned forward in his seat as the joust commenced. Lance crashed into chests at the first pass – Sir Garfield was nearly knocked off, but managed to throw himself back on to his horse. Sir Greenwood was shaken but not removed.

The second pass led to a lance breaking against Greenwood's shield, and glancing just shy of Logan's shoulder. It was remarkable that Logan was able to hold on during the third pass, a direct hit to the chest that carried more force than the first hit. It was more remarkable when four passes came and went with no clear victor. Oswald felt some measure of pity for Logan. Greenwood was a fairly imposing man, and Logan was tiny in comparison. The only advantage the latter had was his speed; Kandorians favored daggers, archery, and stealth, and the man was a perfect example of that preference.

The dual was unconventional. Sir Greenwood struck an imposing figure with his wooden flail and shield, and Sir Logan did not allow the larger man much time to strike, dodging back behind him once the beginning of the match was called. He thrust a leg out to sweep the larger man's legs, pushing on the back of his knees in and rolling away to avoid the fall. Greenwood fell bodily, grunting and swinging his flail towards the other. It cracked Logan's hip but did not impede the man much. He spun away with a grace that was uncommon of a Knight, swinging his shortsword wide towards the chest of the man who struggled to stand up.

The blow connected with a clang, striking the area Greenwood had been hit with the lance; the dent in his armor collapsed a little further. With a roar, Greenwood dove towards him, flail bearing down towards his head. Logan dodged the weapon but was caught around the leg by the other man's arms, losing his footing. He attempted to use this to his advantage and to bring a knee down at his neck, but was unsuccessful. Weapons discarded, the brawl continued in the mud, both opponents scrambling for footing and advantage.

The voracious howling of the crowd ended instantly when the helmet was knocked from the Kandorian's head, and Greenwood scrambled backwards away from the Knight. Oswald's jaw fell, eyes going wide.

Beneath the helmet and hood was the unmistakable face of a woman.

“Well, that's unexpected.” Oswald murmured in surprise, shifting to stand up and move towards the front of the platform to get a closer look.

There was no mistaking it. This woman, this impostor, was in fact **not** Garfield Logan, who was pale of skin and blue of eye. Her skin was olive of tone, eyes dark and fierce. And Sir Greenwood was furious, standing up to tower over her after the realization that he had gone blow for blow with a woman.

“How **dare** you defile the competition with your presence, woman! I've half a mind to end you now for your crimes! Where is the real Knight Logan!?” Greenwood shouted as the woman scrambled to her feet.

“He is safe and unharmed, I swear! I only wanted the opportunity to compete, I...” She protested, backing away from him. Scandalized murmurs overtook the crowd.

“You nothing! What did you do? Did you seduce and poison him, whore?” Greenwood stalked towards her. The audience was quickly whipping up into a frenzy at the prospect of further violence.

Oswald looked to Captain Harvey, who was as stunned as the rest. “Sir Bullock, get down there with two of the guard and protect her. I will not allow mob justice to harm this woman because Sir Greenwood's pride has been wounded!”

Harvey snapped to attention on Oswald's command, vaulting over the partition and moving through the barricades, grabbing two of his men as he went.

They made it to the false Knight just as Greenwood was extending a hand to grasp at her hood.

“Halt! Remove your hand! By order of the King, this woman is not to come to harm by your hand!” Harvey bellowed at him. The man's voice had presence, and carried over the frantic crowd, a skill groomed over many years of training ornery recruits from the countryside.

“She deserves any--” Greenwood began, only to have his voice drowned out by Harvey's.

“ _Remove your hand, Sir Greenwood!_ The woman is not yours to punish!” Harvey's words sank home, and Robert unhanded her, stepping back. The two guardsmen gathered her up, pulling her to her feet.

Oswald watched Greenwood stomp away, towards the Argonite camp. The young King assumed it was to demand justice through his representatives, that the lady be brought to Argo and executed, or something equally ridiculous. Flanked by the guardsmen, she was brought to the front of the platform. As the highest authority in those particular lands, it fell on Oswald to decide what to do with her.

“Woman, what is your name?” Oswald said as he moved forward to regard her. She had pushed back the hood, revealing black hair bound up in a tight style that allowed it no movement.

“I – my name is Renee Montoya, his Majesty.” She would not meet his eyes, held up still by the guard. The dual had likely left her with many pains, though she held any expression of that back like a proper Knight.

“And the Knight you impersonated; where is he?” Oswald demanded.

“He... He is here, Majesty. He was injured on the journey here, during a bad storm. I swear to you, King Cobblepot, this was no scheme! I have always wanted to be a Knight, but I am a woman – Sir Logan is my mother's son, we grew up together and...” She began to ramble, fearful of the punishment that awaited her. Oswald felt for her, somewhere deep inside. The desire to have something that the world did not want you to have was something that he knew on an intimate level.

“If you wish to be a Knight, then conduct yourself with the dignity of one! Stand straight, woman, and look me in the eye.” Oswald commanded, slamming a hand down on the partition. Immediately she righted her stance, shoulders squared and eyes focusing on him with admirable intensity.

“Now, Miss Montoya. You claim Sir Logan to be your kin, yes? And that he sustained an injury on the ship during your travels?” Oswald asked.

“Yes, Majesty. There was a squall that rocked the ship, and he was beneath the deck with myself and a number of others. One of the tables came loose and crashed upon his left leg. It broke instantly under the weight of it.” She told him.

“And is there anyone here that may verify this claim?” Oswald continued, hands resting on the partition.

“There were others that saw it happen, His Majesty, but the idea to compete in his stead was mine and mine alone.” She said it immediately. She was willing to take the entirety of the blame for her participation, though Sir Logan no doubt knew – the Lord they served might likely have had a part as well.

“Well, until I can have these claims checked, there is naught that can be done but to have you formally disqualified from the Tournament; the match goes to Sir Robert Greenwood, of Argo. For --” Oswald began, eyes going wide when he heard an angered roar to his left.

“Disqualified? Impersonating a Knight is treason, punishable by death!” Greenwood had reared his ugly head again, feet pounding in the mud to move towards the platform.

“Treason in _your_ Kingdom, Sir Greenwood. But unfortunately for you, we are in Gotham, where my word is law, and I will handle it how **I** see fit without consideration for your words. And I feel it pertinent to inform you that here, _in Gotham_ , interrupting a King is punishable by flogging, so you would do well to mind your tongue!” Oswald snapped at the brutish man.

“Then have me flogged! Argo will not stand for this disrespect! Kandor and Gotham both will be held accountable for this!” He bellowed.

“And you speak for all of Argo in this?” Oswald seethed, staring at the man. “Or do you speak only for yourself, offended that you were nearly bested by a woman you are twice the size of? Does it cut your manhood so deeply that you would call for war on two Kingdoms over something so trivial?”

“How _dare_ you--” Greenwood sputtered, face burning red with rage.

“How dare I? How dare I!? How dare you speak to me in such a manner!” Oswald shouted back, manners quickly forgotten as his anger rose to match that of the other man's. Behind him, he could just barely hear Edward's chair creaking as he stood to move to his side.

“I am King in these lands, Sir Greenwood, and you would do well to stand down immediately! Take your wounded pride and return to your camp!” Oswald snapped. Edward was at his side now, his presence cooling his vexation. He felt the taller man's hand at his side, gently pawing his robe to remind him that every Kingdom was watching. He should be stern, not unreasonable; to allow Greenwood to return to his camp unpunished was bending to Argo, but was expected. He could practically hear Edward's voice in his head, cool reason dousing his vicious temper.

“Very well, King Cobblepot.” Greenwood hissed, “I will leave the matter to your _wisdom_.”

With a stiff bow, Greenwood left the arena, presumably to rant and rave in his own camp about how disrespected he felt. Oswald considered it a win. Standing wide-eyed to his front, Renee watched as the man left, then returned her attention to Oswald. She was no doubt in shock at his decision not to allow Greenwood to harm her. The King regarded the two Guardsmen instead.

“You two, take her to the castle, where she will be remanded until tonight. Miss Montoya; I will see you tonight, when I will decide what course of action to take once your claims have been investigated. Captain Bullock, I leave it in your capable hands to see to her claims once the guardsmen return from the castle.” Oswald commanded, looking between the guardsmen and the captain.

With a stern salute, the guards each took an arm to lead the false knight to the castle.

Oswald turned slightly to regard the crowd.

“And now, the tournament may continue, hopefully without further interruption, hm?” He gave a smile, moving to his seat.

 


End file.
